Some people say that I’m crazy, and I often agree with them.

After all, normal folk can sleep soundly at night, and aren’t troubled by crazed demonic dreams and vampires that suck the marrow from their bones should they attempt to slumber before the sun comes up each day.

These well-rested folk cope well with stress, don’t treat slights as mortal sins, and never fixate upon revenge as an essential factor that is fundamental to their ongoing well being. They roll with the punches, and accept wrongdoing as just a normal part of life, forgive their sinners and their sins, and simply move on to live another day.

What the hell is wrong with the c*nts?

They’re gunna get kicked in the head forever unless they stand up and fight back. Are they f*cking mental? Or just goddamn cowards?

Here’s what happens to you when you roll over like a dog and let an uglier dog kick you in the head. Here’s what happens to your kids.

This is the police brief against the arch-pedophile Kevin ‘Skippy’ Lynch, the close friend of then St Paul’s School Headmaster Gilbert Case, who put the fix in to make sure that Lynch could come to St Paul’s and measure a few boy’s dicks, massage the said appendage, and do a whole lot more.

I’ll tell you more about Case and the kiddy fiddling rort soon, but first just take a look at the charges that were laid against Lynch the day before he topped himself, or is alleged to have topped himself anyway.

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Indecent dealing with children, procuring kids to perform indecent acts, aggravated assault against minors – it’s a f*cking disgrace – and all of the crimes were perpetrated against students in his and Gilbert Case’s care.

You’d hang the c*nt from a tree if you were a fair dinkum school leader wouldn’t you?

You’d spit on the pedo’s grave, and piss on his headstone.

You’d stand up in front of the school and say f*ck this sh*t, this arsehole’s going straight to hell in a hand basket, and good riddance to the bad rubbish too.

And then you’d take his victims into your school community’s loving embrace and say sorry, sorry, sorry sons, we knew not what we did, and how can we make it better?

How can we as a caring collective make it better, and provide you some comfort in your suffering caused by Skippy’s satanic sex crimes and sins?

That’s what a decent dude would do.

A bloke like Jesus perhaps.

What would Jesus do? Exactly what I have outlined above.

But what did Gilbert Case do?

This.

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He f*cking prayed for him.

Gilbert Case prayed for the man who had wantonly, callously and viciously abused young troubled boys who has turned to him for help.

He instructed teachers to sh*t the fuck up and not to say a word about the truth of Lynch’s torture of teen boys, under the implicit threat of the sack if they opened their mealy mouths to the media or to the parents of pupils at the school.

The perverted Principal even f*cking prayed for Skippy’s soul, and grieved for the fact that the school could not meet the pedophile’s needs, and had failed him, leaving him in the undying – or perhaps dead, to state it correctly – agony of being sprung for hypnotising and drugging young boys and sticking needles in their dicks.

They met Skippy’s needs all right, and sated his wicked wants too.

But what about the poor little kids with the pricked and sucked and wanked and f*cked penises? What about them?

Not a f*cking word.

Not a single syllable about their pain.

Those young c*nts were to blame.

They killed Kevin, and they would pay.

Oh yeah, those murderous midgets would pay, ‘cos Case was going to force the f*ckers to attend Kevin’s funeral in the school chapel and bend down before him as he had once bent down before them, and kiss his kiddy-fiddling coffin.

And that’s exactly what he did.

Why?

This is why.

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Well it’s sort of why anyway.

It goes much deeper than that, all the way to the depths of hell and hand jobs performed in front of a mirror while watching the videos that Skippy filmed while the little lads were drugged out of their brain or hypnotised into a half-trance state.

Case was in on it too, don’t you worry about that.

Any day soon, when the Royal Commission report into Case Study 34 is complete, this craven, perjuring coward will be climbing onto his hell-bound cart and following the kiddy-fiddling c*nts highway taken by his pal Kevin, and descending via the fast route to the rancid, steaming stench-filled banks of the River Styx.

Surely there Gilbert Case’s mercy seat awaits.

And long may he suffer and burn for his sins.